


Worn Cotton

by pinkmoogle



Series: Tumblr Prompts [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 00:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18418778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkmoogle/pseuds/pinkmoogle
Summary: Tumblr Prompt #14: "Is that my shirt?"An accident with garden curry has Ignis supplying you with a replacement shirt.





	Worn Cotton

“Ah,  _shit_!”

Ignis jostles from the other side of the campfire, his bowl of still-steaming garden curry nearly toppling from its placement atop his lap and down into the dirt. “ _Heavens_ ,” he breathes, reaching up to readjust his spectacles before casting you a look of utter disbelief from over the crackling flame. “What’s  _happened_?”

You didn’t need to tell him for him to know; glistening down the entirety of your shirt was your  _own_  garden curry, the deep brown of the tumeric sauce already doing a number on the fabric that you’re struggling to keep pulled away from your skin. Having misconceived the general heat of the meal, you lasted but a few seconds of grasping the porcelain before quickly letting it slip from your fingers… You hadn’t expected it to actually fall  _back_  onto you, though.  _That_  was your fault.

“I’m so sorry, Ignis,” you speak through a hiss, body shifting in the folding chair to better keep your skin out of contact with your saturated shirt. “I didn’t mean to drop it, I —”

“It’s quite alright,” he says cooly, no longer panic-stricken as he cups his own bowl with careful fingers before leaning to gently set it down onto the ground. “I keep a duffel with spare garments in the trunk of the Regalia for situations such as these… I’ll go and retrieve a shirt for you.”

“ _Thank you_ …” You sigh, swallowing at the tightening knot of gratitude that’s forming in the back of your throat. “Thank you  _so_ much, Ignis.”

You think you see him smile as he goes to stand, but your peripheral has the majority of your attention; standing near the makeshift kitchen of the campsite is Noctis, Prompto and Gladio, all of whom are deeply rooted in conversation of vegetables while serving up their own steaming bowls of curry. Whether or not they saw you make a mess of yourself, you weren’t sure, but you were definitely thankful that they hadn’t had a front-row seat to it like Ignis had.

Humiliation would have you packing your bags if that were the case.

Upon the strategist’s return with a spare shirt not but a minute later, you make sure to retrieve it and dismiss yourself right as the others are coming over to have a seat, hoping against hope that they don’t ask questions or take notice of the spilled vegetables and rice scattered across the dirt around your chair. Once sneaking off behind the tent to practically peel off your shirt to change, however, you hear Ignis tell them about your accident, anyway. No one laughs, surprisingly — outside of a playful “ _whoops_ ” from Gladio, the topic is dropped entirely.

Until you walk back out.

The fabric is comfortable against your skin, soft from years of use, and it isn’t until the light of the campfire illuminates your approaching figure that colored, pixelated little figures appear against the front and immediately catch Noctis’ attention.

“All better, (Y/N)?” Ignis casually asks, tipping a plastic cup to his mouth and sipping at the contents inside.

You prepare yourself to answer, lips parting to comment on just how thankful you were until a voice cuts across the other side of the fire.

“Is that my shirt?”

Your eyes quickly meet the slate-grey pits of the Prince, who’s stopped chewing his mouthful of curry entirely. “Is it?” You ask, breaking his gaze to glance down at yourself. You truly hadn’t known, but it had made sense; not only was the smell familiar, but the characters of King’s Knight was a dead giveaway. You’d only taken what you’d been given, and you didn’t even take a moment to  _look_  at it before walking off to change into it.

“It is, Noct,” Ignis smoothly cuts in. “I figured it would fit her figure the most comfortably.”

For several moments, Noctis says nothing, eyes flitting between your eyes and the way that the fabric modestly yet snugly fits to the swell of your breasts and the flare of your hips. You can’t help but fidget beneath his scrutiny.

“You can have it, I guess,” he finally says, leaning further back in his folding chair. “It… looks better on you.”

Ignis lowers his chin to glance at Noctis from over his glasses. “That’s your favorite shirt.”

The Prince acknowledges this with a nod, eyes dropping to sift his fork through his curry before he’s looking back over at you again. “I know. Who says that I can’t be nice?”

What Ignis doesn’t see, however, is the half-grin that Noctis gives you when all eyes turn away, and the heat in your cheeks has nothing to do with the warmth of that night’s campfire.


End file.
